


Return

by Squash (Squashers)



Category: Manic Street Preachers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squashers/pseuds/Squash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Richey comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

The few months off touring, where he can just stay at home and write and be his naturally introverted self, are months that Nicky relishes. Today, like every day, he takes Molly for a walk with sunglasses and headphones on, enjoys the cold morning air and the lovely loneliness. He watches television when he gets back, flipping through magazines during the advertisements. When he feels awake enough, he writes, cleans, writes some more, cleans for a break, cooks dinner and eats it while working on editing down what he's just written. Nobody rings him or knocks or anything; no one is shuffling him from place to place in a hurry. It's funny, he thinks as he pulls a book from his shelf and sits down to read, how surprised his past self would be at his sedate and anti-social life, but he knows it's the only way it would have turned out.

A knock sounds on the door and Nicky flips his book closed on one finger with a frown. Nearly nine in the evening; who would be calling at this hour? Don't most people know that past eight in the evening it's impolite to disturb whatever personal stillness surrounds a house with petty and arbitrary interruptions? The knock comes again, tentative but firm. Whoever it is, they're not going to give up. Nicky sighs as he puts his book down on the coffee table, moving to answer the door. The knocking begins again as he pulls it open, and his gaze follows the closed fist as it falls back against its owner's side.

Dark brown hair, trimmed to be perfectly nondescript. Large brown eyes, circled in sleepless, stressed out darkness, gazing at him full of nervousness and joy, guilt and sadness and hope. A few weeks' worth of stubble shadows his jaw. Thin frame made thinner in black jeans and dark blue shirt, black leather jacket swallowing his body despite its close fit. Fingers clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides.

“Oh--,” Nicky grips the door frame as his knees start to go weak. His body feels numb, the wooshing of blood suddenly too loud in his ears. His face is tingling, and it feels as though a tidal wave is building in his chest, tears of shock welling in his eyes. Thoughts blank out, tumble, crowd each other, until all that's left is shock and garbled exclamations and a name. “Christ. You're bloody real, aren't you. Rich-- Jesus.”

Richey's mouth quirks up sideways in an anxious smile, but there's an eagerness that grows in his eyes. His voice is soft, almost hoarse as he ducks his head self-consciously, clearly nervous about his reception. Still, his words are thick with sad affection. “Hey, Nicky.”

Something falls away inside of Nicky and he closes his eyes, pressing his temple against the side of the door. He hadn't thought he'd ever hear that voice again, except on shitty interview recordings that he or his family managed to tape and save, answering the same questions again and again. And here he is, saying Nicky's name, pure and real and _alive_ in front of him for the first time in six years. Something like amazed relief edges in around the shock. Nicky stares at him in the dim light on the porch, trying to take in every detail-- every change, everything that's stayed the same, all of it, almost in fear that he might just vanish again. Richey shifts, a hand coming up to chew on his fingernail, then falling away, glancing apprehensively at the doorways just feet away from Nicky's own.

“Nick? Can I come in?”

Nicky starts, shaking himself back to reality and nods, stepping back to widen the doorway and let Richey through, still staring. He shuts the door gently, suddenly frightened of making any loud noises, any sudden movements, as if this is a dream he might accidentally wake himself from. They stand face to face in the hallway, gazing at each other, taking stock, uncertain of what comes next. Nicky takes a step forward just as Richey decides to move as well, and suddenly they are inches from each other instead of feet, and Nicky is staring down into Richey's face, and it's _so real_. This isn't a dream; there is heat radiating off Richey's skin that Nicky can feel in the mid-March cold of the flat, and he can see Richey's dark eyes staring at him, can hear and feel his breathing. It's almost too much.

Unthinkingly, mind full of nothing but overwhelmed, inarticulate expressions of confusion and joy, amazement and delayed grief, he moves forward. Whatever the expression on his face, whatever sound he makes, must be warning enough, because Richey's hands are already moving to hold him as Nicky wraps his arms around Richey's body, burying his face in Richey's neck and clinging to the back of his jacket. It's not until Richey begins to whisper “I'm so sorry,” fingers carding through his hair, that Nicky realizes he is quietly weeping.

Overwhelming. Grief and fear and hope and waiting and worry and hurt and infinite aching what-ifs colliding here and collapsing heavy at his feet. But Richey is standing here, in his arms, solid and warm and real. Not a dream. Not a dream, this time. Nicky pulls him closer and Richey doesn't object despite the fact that it must be bruising and heavy; he just clings equally tighter, still murmuring apologies. A tension that has been wrapped around Nicky's heart, wringing ever tighter in his stomach, uncoils and falls away.

When Nicky pulls away enough to let go, step back a bit, Richey's staring at his feet, head hanging. His cheeks, when he looks up, are wet, his eyes full of unshed tears. Nicky hates it, because it looks too much like Richey often did in those last few horrible months. He can only think of questions he doesn't quite want to ask yet, so instead he steps back and wipes at his face, strokes his throat with a nervous hand.

“Would you like some tea?” It sounds too terribly awkward and formal for two friends who have known each other for twenty years.

Richey nods and follows Nicky into the kitchen, perching on a stool gestured to by Nicky's flighty hands. Waiting for the kettle to boil, they've got nothing to do but chew on their own nails and stare at everything but each other, afraid to start a conversation in this interim moment. The silence is thick and awkward with history and questions and high-strung emotion. The rattle and plastic slap of the dog door startles both of them as Molly trundles in from the back yard. Sensing a guest, she wanders over and sniffs at the hand Richey offers to her, before licking his fingers and resting her muzzle against his knee. Nicky watches his friend's face soften, a smile lighting his features as he scratches Molly's head and she huffs a contented sigh.

“She remembers you.” Nicky finds that this makes him emotional as well, especially when Richey looks up at him and smiles.

“Yeah, I think she does. It's a surprise, really.”

“You're difficult to forget.” The kettle beeps and Nicky ducks his head as he moves to make their tea. “Sorry, didn't mean it like that.”

“You did,” Richey replies softly, and Nicky doesn't turn to see his face. “But it's all right.”

Richey cups his hands around the bottom of the mug that Nicky hands him, blowing gently across its surface. Nicky moves to the doorway. “Like old times?”

Again, Richey's only reply is a silent nod, allowing Nicky to take the lead and dictate where they go or what they talk about. Nicky wonders if it's out of shyness or guilt or reluctance to speak about all that has happened. Still, Richey follows him willingly down the hallway and takes off his jacket to sit cross-legged on the bed facing each other, mugs of tea balanced on their knees. If sheets of scribbled-on paper were spread around them, it could be ten years earlier.

Nicky surveys the small expanse of skin revealed by Richey's t-shirt, noticing a few more scars than the ones he remembers, but nothing obviously worrisome or extreme. Inwardly, he allows himself a sigh of relief. Maybe he really _is_ better. Richey sips his tea and stares at him from under his lashes, clearly waiting for the questions pressing against Nicky's tongue.

“Why?” The question falls heavy between them. There's no need to elaborate. Richey runs a ragged thumbnail across the rim of his cup, head hanging.

“I had to get away from everything. I needed to sort my head out.” Richey's words are quiet and measured as he considers how to explain himself. “Everything got mixed up, you know, and there was too much going on in my head and out there – I needed to get out. All my thoughts, the alcohol, the press, traveling, the hospitals, the twelve step program, Philip and Snoopy, my own head, it was all doing me in. I had to go somewhere on my own, just to be alone for a while and have nothing hanging over me.”

“I know you were just doing what you had to. But I do wish you'd left us something, a card, or called.”

Richey nods, clenching his fingers together across the rim of his cup, squeezing until his knuckles go white. “I wasn't thinking. For weeks it was just an idea, just a concept my mind went to when I was overwhelmed. I didn't fully realize I was going to do it until the thought gave me more relief than anything else. And I couldn't handle the idea of going to America, of spending another three weeks pretending I was feeling better and pretending I cared about the tour. When I left, it was just the creation of this idea that had been building, and I didn't think about it, I just acted. I felt like I had to.” Richey looks up, expression serious but present. “Afterward, I wanted to write you, Nick, believe me. But it worked out, because it was easier if people just made assumptions, thought I'd died or was in Goa or all that. If I'd left something or made contact, eventually you'd all come to see me, and journalists would follow, and I'd never be rid of anything. It would just happen all over again. I needed to have no one know anything, so no one could bother me. I saw the television adverts and the newspaper articles, all of it. I'm sorry. I just couldn't do anything, because I knew if I did, it would all blow up in my face and nothing would ever change.”

“Everyone thinks you're dead. They all think you jumped into the Severn. I didn't but – I think I'd started mourning you.”

“I know. I've heard the new songs. Some of them...well, I could tell.”

“Oh,” Nicky imagines Richey listening to the past few albums. Imagines what he might think. Of the direction they went. Of Nicky's writing without him. Of the fame they'd gained since he left.

“They're good. I'm proud of you. You lot made it big.”

“It wasn't the same without you, you know. I wanted to make it big with you.” Richey shifts apologetically and sighs through his nose. Can't go back in time. Nicky plucks at the bedspread, swallows. Wishes there was a better way to ask all the questions tumbling through his head. “Richey? Are you okay now?”

There's a beat of silence as they both consider the question. Richey answers slowly, as if picking his way through thoughts and memories. “I'm better than I was back then. Nicky, you know mental illness doesn't just go away. My problems aren't just gone because I took a break. But...six years ago I was falling apart and I felt like I couldn't communicate to anyone what I was feeling. It was all incredibly convoluted and strange and hard to describe.” He brings one hand up to rub at his forehead, seemingly chasing the phantoms of that year of pain. “I was just so completely confused and overwhelmed. My head was a mess. I couldn't decide if I wanted to die or disappear. I didn't go anywhere fancy or remote, you know. You were always right, the way you talked about it-- I just went up to Scotland. It was shit, but I needed someplace no one knew me, no one would look at me, where I could just be on my own. At first I was a bit useless. I just got a crap job as a dish washer in the back of some restaurant where I didn't have to talk to anyone til I got my head sorted. I really wasn't well. Later I got some freelance writing gigs under pseudonyms and the like. Mostly I just kept my head down and wrote for myself and painted and tried to work things out. I never went to the NHS-- they'd have known who I was. I just needed to be in one place for a while. By myself, so I could write and think and all that without any other responsibilities. I found private care, you know, some lady in an office block.”

“Did she help? Did it work this time?” It was something that had gnawed guiltily at Nicky for years, the knowledge that the Priory had only served to confuse Richey's mind more, the knowledge that his friend had left hospital treatment a different person-- and not in a good way. The knowledge that none of them had been able to help their best friend, and the professionals hadn't even tried to understand him.

Richey nods. “Her name's Helena, you'd like her. I didn't tell her who I was at first, but she helped me figure out how to cope with it all in a way that didn't mess with my head, got me on medication that works. Last year, I finally told her everything. I was so scared she was going to go straight to the press, or tell me to go back home. But she didn't seem shocked, and she just told me I should think about going back someday, but I should wait until I was ready. Once the air was clear, she helped me further, because I could talk about all the things that happened without hiding who I was. Things still aren't great, but I'm dealing, I think. It helped to be alone and have time and space to myself. But Helena pointed out that I kept talking about all of you more and more often, and I realized that it had been so long, and I missed you terribly, and I wanted to see you again. So I decided to come back here.”

“I'm sorry,” Nicky manages to croak out. Richey frowns at him, cocking his head to one side.

“What for?”

Nicky shakes his head, grimacing a confused smile at his own knees. “I dunno, not talking to you more. Not listening correctly. Sending you to that place that messed you up so terribly. Making you feel like you had to run away to find some peace.”

“No, Nicky, Christ-- _I'm_ sorry. You talked to me so much, talked to me through everything. I worried you and scared you and hurt you so much that last year, and before, too. I'm so sorry for that. And even I didn't know how to get across what I was feeling. You weren't listening incorrectly, I just couldn't articulate myself anymore; it was all too confused and overwhelming. And you didn't send me to the Priory-- we all agreed it would be good for me, and I agreed to try it. I didn't know it would mess with my head so much. I didn't know it would destroy me the way it did. I wanted to do my best to get better.” His voice slips lower, his hands fidgeting gently with the half-drunk mug. “And I'm sorry that what I did hurt you. At the time I wasn't thinking, you know. I thought you'd all be better off without my dead weight dragging you down. I knew I was just making it worse for all of you, and I could tell what I was trying to express wasn't what the rest of you wanted, and I knew it wouldn't make a difference to the music. I was overwhelmed and I thought I was making it worse for everyone by sticking around. I was just thinking about getting away from it all, getting out somehow. I didn't know what I wanted except to not be where I was or what I was anymore. Now it's easier, I can cope better, but – I didn't mean to cause you so much pain. I just had to get away.”

“I know. And it was painful for me-- for us, but you were doing what you had to. I understand that.” Nicky puts his tea down on the side table before staring into Richey's face, marveling at the fact that he gets to see again, up close and in person, those glorious cheekbones and intelligent, watchful eyes. “I'm just so glad to see you again. I missed you so much.”

Richey's eyes are dark and intense and hold his gaze. “I'm glad to see you too, I really am.”

As if realizing the absurdity of the situation, Nicky shakes his head and snorts, breaking out of the serious moment and flinging himself backward to lie across the bed. “God, listen to us. Sentimental, dramatic twats, we are.”

Richey puts his own mug on the table and stretches out beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “We're allowed. It's been long enough.”

Their elbows knock as they shift until their shoulders overlap, heads pressed together, staring up at the ceiling the way they'd had so many conversations at university and at Philip's and in hotel rooms on tour. Nicky feels emotion swell in his chest; he had no idea just how much he missed this-- the closeness, the friendship, the simple act of sitting in the same room with and touching and talking to a person you genuinely love to be with. He honestly can't remember the last time they sat like this. Long before everything went to hell. His heart aches as he grieves for lost time.

They are silent, just enjoying each other's presence. Nicky savors every one of Richey's breaths he can feel against his shoulder.

“What was it like, disappearing?” he asks suddenly, almost involuntarily. “What did it feel like?”

Richey chews a fingernail thoughtfully. “I don't know. Like-- death without dying, almost. Totally alone, totally silent. No future, nothing looming in front of me. No one knew me or looked at me or spoke to me unless I spoke to them first. I didn't have to think about anything except keeping to myself. As soon as I found a flat in Scotland it was like I could hibernate or something, just stay inside for a thousand years until I felt better. I could hide away and do what I wanted without any expectations. It was freeing.” His hand falls away from his mouth and twists together with the fingers of his other hand instead. “But, I mean, I was in the middle of a mental breakdown, really. Different from that first time – this time it was more about self-preservation of some sort, I think. In the back of my head, I knew cutting myself wasn't going to help, I knew damage to my physical body wasn't going to do much of anything this time. As soon as I got in the car, I knew I only had two options. Honestly it was less planned than it seemed. I was just moving on autopilot, acting without really thinking about it because I knew if I thought about it I'd start complicating things and it would all just fall apart. I wasn't well, and I think the only thoughts running through my mind at the time were to get out and to fix things in whatever way I could come up with.”

“And the car? The taxi ride? The two weeks in between?”

“I drove around quite a bit after I left my flat. Mostly around Cardiff and the like, but I did go back around to London. I just drove because it was movement and that meant something was happening that wasn't me just sitting in a hotel waiting to go on another tour I couldn't handle in a country I didn't like. I needed to not be waiting, but I didn't want to stay still either, because I knew if I remained where I was—or went home-- I'd just end up back in hospital. And I wasn't sure I wanted to keep living, either. It just seemed like nothing was ever going to change, like I was never going to get better. I stayed at the service station for a few days trying to decide what I wanted to do. Ended up hitchhiking my way up to Scotland. By then I'd grown a bit of a beard, and if I kept my hat on I didn't look anything like those photos of me. The taxi ride wasn't me. I remember reading about that in the paper. I don't know what poor sod wanted to drive around the hills, but it wasn't me.”

Nicky stares into middle distance, trying to take everything in, process it all. Richey's hair tickles his cheek as he shifts a little. He can hear Richey swallow, grind his teeth a little, sigh, as if building towards something, and then his mouth opens and the words drag themselves out, nervous and guilty and sad. “What was it like for you? All of this?”

When Nicky turns his head to look, Richey's eyes are squeezed shut, his face vulnerable, as if waiting for a punishment he knows he deserves but doesn't want. Nicky wishes he could smooth that emotion away, but he wouldn't be speaking honestly if he did. And this is a time for complete honesty. And he knows that he is equally vulnerable in this situation, that they are both stripped raw, that the events set in motion by Richey's decision to lock his hotel room door and walk out into the early morning cold have scraped them both down to the quick, and neither is more healed than the other. Then Richey opens his eyes and looks at him, and he has to speak.

“I... It ruined my life, Rich. At first I didn't know what to think, you know. Those first few days, I just hoped you'd run off to clear your head somewhere. I was too anxious to do anything. After I got to your flat and you weren't there, I went home and I just sat...I sat by the phone and didn't go out. I let everyone else deal with logistics because I was too busy worrying. I don't think I slept much. When they found your car, and we went down to the impound yard with your family to have a look, I couldn't stop crying. Everyone said you were dead. Everyone thought you'd jumped from the bridge and I just-- I think it was the idea that you'd have gone and done that without leaving a note, without saying goodbye or giving a reason when you've always been so keen on explaining things-- I just couldn't handle it. They told me to get grief counseling, but I just couldn't.” Nicky stares down at his hands, clenching and stretching his fingers, pulling at them, twisting them over and over. He can't look away from his own hands because if he looks away all the memories and emotions building inside him might overtake him. He can't look away because looking at Richey will mean he'll want to stop, but he shouldn't stop, he needs to say everything. “A massive part of me agreed with everyone else – I remember waking up from nightmares about you dying for weeks after that. I couldn't sleep because of it; I was too anxious. But I couldn't believe you were dead if there was no body to prove it. I just couldn't. And I just felt like all the little things just didn't add up. Every missed call, I thought it might have been from you. But after, after that, I don't know. It was devastating. It just felt like my world had fallen apart, really. So much of my life centered around our friendship-- I didn't realize it fully until you'd gone. But I'd see something on television or think of a fantastic turn of phrase or read a poem or just feel bored and lonely or something and I'd pick up the phone to call you and then remember you weren't there. Or I'd be in a cab halfway to your flat to visit you and see if you wanted to go to a film together and I'd remember. You were my best friend, and suddenly you weren't there anymore, and I didn't know what to do. It was like a piece of me had been torn away and left a gaping hole.”

Richey has shifted his body towards Nicky's, slid down to look up into his face. Nicky can feel tears dripping off Richey's chin and landing on his shoulder, but now that he's started talking, he can't seem to stop, and he doesn't want to. Putting everything out there to the only person that matters, the only person that deserves to have the entire story, is like an inevitable tidal wave of emotion and memory that he can only ride and cannot seem to stop.

“And, y'know, you were right that it didn't affect us musically, but recording that album and not having you to play video games with, not congregating in your bedroom every night to talk, not having you there to bounce lyric ideas off of, not driving to and from the studio with you, it felt wrong. It felt strange. We did it, but we never wanted to be a three-piece, and without the four of us together it just felt off kilter and asymmetrical as soon as we started.” Nicky squeezes his eyes shut, working to push at the ache of memories as he talks. “I remember-- before we released the album we played a little warm up gig and I looked over to check on you, to see how you were doing, and there was no one there. Your space on the stage was empty and suddenly I just felt like all my skin was off, like I was completely raw and torn up and I didn't know what we were doing anymore, and there was this massive piece of me missing. I got offstage and I just-- broke down. I cried for hours, just curled in the back of the car, and James helped me back to my hotel room but I couldn't seem to stop crying. I think I just-- it hit me for real that you weren't coming back, and that I was alone in all this and that space wasn't going to be filled again. After that, it got easier, I guess. I stopped picking up the phone to call you, but I'd constantly see or hear or read things and think 'Oh, Richey'd really like this' or I'd wonder what you were doing, if you were happy. I thought about you every day. Every interview I did, I couldn't help but talk about you. And when I wrote lyrics, I felt like your spirit was watching me, like you were looking over my shoulder and whispering encouragement. I've written loads of lyrics about you, for you, to you. Everyone treated me kind of strangely because I couldn't stop talking about you; but everything I'd ever done, I'd done with you. Even your sister said I couldn't seem to accept that you were gone or let you go. And she was right, I suppose. I just couldn't. I think, though, that I came to accept that you were just doing what you needed to do, whatever that was. And I was right, so I'm glad about that.”

“I'm surprised your faith in me lasted this long,” Richey smiles, just a little. “Most people would have given up a year or two in. The press certainly did.”

“Rich, if there's one thing I pride myself in, it's knowing you almost as well as I know myself.” He stares up at the ceiling, blinking back tears of some emotion that keeps welling up in him in waves. “If you'd run away without saying anything, it was because you had to. I knew if you had decided to...kill yourself...you'd have left some sort of explanation or note. Because you're a writer, because you're you. You'd have wanted us to know why, you'd have wanted to try and make us understand.”

Nicky looks away, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. It's embarrassing, telling Richey what he would have been thinking, taking this leap of faith into the air that his assumptions and knowledge are right, feeling like he knows the truth but at any point now this could just be guessing. He feels Richey nod against him.

“I guess you're right. I almost did, you know. Almost. Because I wanted out and I'm weak. But I tried to write something and it wouldn't come out the way I wanted it to. I threw it in the water instead, then caught that ride towards Scotland. I realized that I still had more to say, I just needed to get my head fixed up first.”

Nicky pushes himself up, leaning back on his elbows. Nervousness flutters in his stomach, the gentle but persistent gnawing of uncertainty rubbing against his ribs. “Does that mean you want to come back? That you're going to stay?”

Richey freezes, expression slipping into something loose and strange, and stares at him, eyes huge and terrified. Nicky can't be certain but he feels like his own face mirrors the feeling. A small noise escapes from Richey's throat and he presses his face into the bed, the crown of his head pushing at Nicky's ribs. Nicky's heart plummets to his feet and suddenly he feels like crying. His eyes unfocus, Richey's bony shoulders going blurry in front of him.

He feels more than sees Richey shrug. “I don't know, really. I've thought about it a little, but I just keep putting off making a decision. It's hard to fathom. I'm scared, Nick. That it'll all go back to the way it was before, even though I have help and medications that work. That it'll all blow up massive again. That all the journalists won't ever leave me alone. That everyone's going to hate me for what I did. That I won't be able to handle it and it'll get bad again.” He pauses, inhales, presses his head more firmly into Nicky's side. “I'm afraid I don't deserve to come back. That I'll mess everything up just when you've become well and famous.”

Nicky reaches out and finds the back of Richey's neck with his right hand, squeezing gently. Richey seems okay with the comforting touch, so Nicky leaves his hand where it is and rubs at the warm skin. Richey's fears are huge and valid and overwhelming. And it's terrifying because Nicky knows that if they do come true, they will always hurt Richey more than the others, and they will have no way to protect him except to isolate him in a tiny cocoon of trusted friends and locked doors. But even that won't stop the painful speculations, the rumours, the assumptions, the exaggerations. Not for the first time he wishes the press would just disappear and leave everyone well enough alone. That he could take these fears away from Richey with a wave of his hand. That success didn't equal social limelight and lack of emotional and personal privacy.

“It's your decision, Richey. We will always, always welcome you back. If you want my help deciding, I'll give it. If you want to stay here for a while until you figure it out, you're welcome to. Don't feel rushed. Do what you need to in order to be okay.”

Richey nods slowly under his fingertips. “What about James and Sean? My family? Martin and Terri? Should we tell them?”

“Again, it's up to you. Listen, I know it's probably overwhelming to have all these decisions to make, but I don't want to make them for you. That's happened before and we know how it turned out. I want you to be comfortable and safe and happy.”

“I don't know if I want everyone to know where I am. It's frightening. And eventually the truth will come out.”

Suddenly Nicky feels overwhelmed himself and he shifts, pulling himself up to wrap his arms around his shins and put his chin on his knees. “Plenty of people have already accused us of knowing where you are. It was just...insult to injury in the worst way. So it won't be new. We'll just be lying a bit if we say we don't know.”

“Maybe... I just don't want to get anyone's expectations up.”

“I don't think you will. We've all missed you, and we all want you to do things on your own terms, so you can stay well. You shouldn't-- you shouldn't come on tour with us or anything, and I think everyone will agree. It wasn't healthy before and it probably won't be again. Write with me maybe, or just-- just be around. You don't have to be in the band again.”

“But I feel like I'd be, I don't know, obligated to come back to it.”

Nicky rights himself, sitting cross-legged again so he can look into Richey's face, so Richey can see the bare honesty there. “Listen, Rich. First and foremost, you're my friend. We were friends before the band ever started. I'd rather you stayed home and stayed happy and stayed my friend than come back to the band and get fucked up again. You're our friend before anything else, and we care about you, always have done. We don't want you to do anything you think might hurt you. Do you understand? We love you. More than anything we've just wanted you to be healthy and happy. It's all I've ever wanted for you.”

“Okay.”

“And I just hope this Helena has managed to get you to understand that it's more important to take care of yourself than it is to go on tour. It's not worth hurting yourself over.”

“Do you-- do you mind if I call her? She said to ring her whenever I need, especially since I decided to come here.” Richey sits up hurriedly, palms out defensively. “Not that I don't value your words, Nicky. It's just that she's helped me through so much, and--”

“It's okay, I understand. You don't need to explain yourself,” Nicky gestures to the phone on the bedside table as he starts to stand. “Take your time, take whatever you need. Really. I'll go make some more tea so you can have some privacy.”

“No--” Richey reaches out almost desperately before aborting the movement and curling back against himself, embarrassed. “No, Nick. Can you stay here? Just sit, while I do this?”

Nicky nods and returns to his cross-legged position at the end of the bed. Richey has scooted up to the top of the bed to dial the number, leaning back against the headboard with his legs tucked up against his chest. He listens to the ringing on the line with his thumb in his mouth, teeth gnawing softly at the edge of a cuticle.

“Helena?” His voice comes out softer than before, more telling of his uncertainty. “It's Richard.”

Nicky starts at the name Richey is using for himself. He remembers when Richey got out of the hospital and decided he wanted to be called Richard. Remembers how they all stuck with the old nickname or made up new ones. Remembers even further back, when Richey Edwards became Richey James for a time. Remembers even further, when Richey was Teddy and they were all playing football in the scrubby field, blissful and young. Remembers only six years ago, when Richey Edwards became Richey Manic and he'd stopped reading magazines for a year and a half, constantly reminded of everything that had fallen apart and what he'd lost in the wreckage.

“Yes, I went to see him. No, I'm at his house right now. He's sitting next to me.” Richey flicks him a small smile. “I know, you were right, he was happy to see me. I told him about you, about everything you've done for me.”

Nicky catches Richey's eye, nods towards the phone, mouths the words “Thank you” towards the receiver.

“He wants you to know that he says thank you.” Richey tells his therapist. Nicky nods when Richey looks at him again. “But we started talking about if I'm going to come back here or not, for real. If I'm going to stay. There's just a lot to think about, you know? A lot of people to talk to and things to do and so much is just so uncertain.” He drops his hand from his mouth, staring directly into Nicky's face even if the sentence is directed down the phone, “Helena, I'm scared of what's going to happen.”

Nicky half-wishes he could hear the other end of the conversation, but he only gets Richey's responses, and the look on his face that makes him wish he could somehow make Richey less terrified of the future.

“I'm not so sure I can just test it out. If I come back, everyone will know and I won't be able to get back to the anonymity I had before. The press don't just leave people like me alone. If I can't handle it, I can't just disappear like I did before, and I don't want to go back to inpatient treatment.” His eyes take on a distant, glazed quality, that of a remembered hurt and fear, a time neither of them want to go back to.

“Of course I'd rather be with my friends and family, you know that. But I'm scared of what the media will do. I'm scared of what my mind might do.”

“I don't know-- I guess I could tell my family and the band and no one else. But I don't want them to lie about me. I don't like lying. And I don't want them to be blamed for my actions.”

Richey's eyes dart to Nicky's face, then he looks down at his lap, expression dark as he picks at the bedspread. “I know, I'm working on it. It's just hard to believe that other people will care about and help me, you know? Even if that's all they've ever done. It's hard to convince myself I'm worthy of it. I'm working on it. I'm trying.”

“Yeah, he offered to let me stay for a while if I wanted to do that. Do you think it's a good idea? Staying here to think about it, I mean?” Nicky wants to shout 'yes!' towards the phone, but restrains himself. This is Richey's decision to make.

“I know. It's just-- I'm really scared. I can't go through all that again. I don't know if I'd be able to survive it, even with this working medication. Even with support. But I miss my friends, and I miss my family.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And I guess it wouldn't be fair to Nick to make him keep my secret from everyone.”

“Yes, I'll ring you when I do. It's still pretty nerve-wracking though. I know. Yeah, I know, it's just--. Yeah. Okay, I'll call you again soon. And Helena? Thank you. Really.”

Richey hangs the phone up and presses his palms into his eyes, a heavy sigh sliding from his chest. Nicky waits until Richey removes his hands from his face and looks up before scooting across the bed to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder once more. Richey goes limp and tilts until most of his weight is resting against Nicky's body. Nicky puts an arm around his shoulders as he tries to imagine what this must be like for him: the prospect of going back to family and friends, and the fear of encountering past traumas. The fear that if this doesn't work, there is no going back to the way it was. That uncertainty probably hurts Richey as much as the uncertainty of Richey's fate had been hurting Nicky. The terror and sadness of not knowing is almost more painful than knowledge itself.

“I was serious when I said you could stay here if you want to think about it for a while,” Nicky says gently. “We're on break from touring. I've been writing for a new album, but nothing's final. I've not been doing much but walking the dog and hanging about at home watching telly or reading. But-- I don't want you to feel trapped here, so if you want to go back to Scotland while you decide, that's alright.”

Richey shakes his head. “No, I took time off from work for this. A week, just in case. I knew I'd either have to sit around thinking about what decision to make or I'd...”

Need a few days to recover from the emotional impact of your best friend rejecting your return, furious and hurt. Need a few days to figure out what to feel yourself. Nicky can fill in the blanks. He changes the subject. “Would you like me to make up the sofa for you, then? It's late, and I'm sure you've been driving for a while.”

“That'd be nice.” Richey smiles his thanks as he gets up and retrieves his jacket, shrugging it on and following Nicky out into the living room, then past him out the front door to retrieve a small travel bag from his car. When he returns, Nicky is tucking a pair of blankets onto the fold-out bed. “Thank you for this, I'll try not to keep you up. I still struggle to sleep quite a lot of the time, though. That never went away.”

“I'm sorry about that. I know how much you hated it when you couldn't sleep.”

“You hated it, too.” But Richey is smiling his mischievous little smile when Nicky turns to look at him.

“Yeah, I did.” Nicky doesn't mind the playfulness; it reminds him of old times. But he also remembers that avoiding honesty and avoiding the subject only shoved things further and further back until they had disappeared completely. “But more than that I hated seeing you in so much pain. Not being able to do anything to help you was worse than being kept up until the wee hours, really.”

Richey peruses the bookshelf in the living room while Nicky makes up the sofa bed, running his fingers along the spines and mouthing titles and authors to himself. Nicky watches him smile a little at the section dedicated to books of their teenagehood. He takes something off the shelf and flicks through it, puts it back. Runs his hands along the books of Welsh history and poetry.

“You've really gone all a bit nationalist, haven't you?”

Nicky shrugs. “Decided that I may as well hold on to our underdog history in more ways than one. Much as we rejected where we're from when we started, it certainly made us who we are. Here. Anything else you need?”

Richey sits on the edge of the fold out bed, holding his elbows in both hands. “No, I think I'm alright. If I can't sleep, I'll just read a book or-- Hey, Molly.”

The lab has jumped up onto the open space on the bed and settled her paws in Richey's lap. A beloved friend and beloved pet sat together in his living room brings that unnameable emotion curling in Nicky's gut again, making the back of his throat prickle as he watches the two of them. A pair of dark heads and gentle eyes he's adored since the beginning. When Richey puts his head down on Molly's and starts stroking her gently, mumbling to her in a low voice, Nicky takes it as a sign and squeezes his friend's shoulder lightly before returning to his own bed.

Nicky starts awake at four in the morning, and it takes a moment to convince himself that it wasn't some sort of bizarrely realistic, incredible dream. It's not, it's not, he knows it's not, but to comfort himself he tiptoes back out to the doorway of the living room.

Richey is curled in the fetal position under the blankets, his bare back still as knobby and pale as before. One hand is folded under his head, the other stretched out across the blankets, fist loosely curled. Molly is asleep at his feet. Nicky shuffles closer, steps silenced by the carpet, until he's leaning gently on the left arm of the couch, staring down at Richey's sleeping form where he faces away from him, dark hair hanging over his face. If he concentrates hard enough in the dim light, Nicky can see his breathing, slow and deep. Asleep.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers into the darkness at the slumber-deaf body. “In my gut, I think I thought you were dead. I'm so happy that you're not.”

Neither Richey nor the dog stirs. Nicky spends a minute longer staring down at Richey's sleeping form in the darkness-- a midnight pastime from years ago when they shared the same bed and Nicky would wake in the middle of the night from the smell of vodka and citrus and the sound of Richey's unconscious coughing-- before heading back to his room, a euphoric sort of peace washing over him.

In the morning Nicky makes them both breakfast and somehow, without talking about it, they fall back into the old routine of reading the newspaper back and forth. Nicky is content to listen to Richey scoffing about American agricultural scientists pampering their livestock, and praising the environmental efforts of the Eden Project, just to hear the sound of his voice in those scathing, beautiful, intellectual tones. When it's his turn to read an article about Australians fishing hundreds of spilled cases of beer out of a river, he's surprised to be graced with the sound of Richey's laughter-- a light, gentle thing, but laughter all the same. He reads to the end of the article, but when he puts the paper down, his face hurts from smiling. He grins at Richey, who smiles back, then cocks his head questioningly.

“It's been a long time since I've heard you laugh,” Nicky answers the unspoken inquiry. “It's nice.”

Richey nods and takes the paper back. “I'll try and do it more often.”

Nicky is washing up and listening to the gentle click of Richey chewing at his fingernails when he has a thought. “Richey? Do you want me to leave you alone to think about what you're going to do? Or do you want me around to talk to about it?”

Richey pulls his hand away from his mouth and studies it intently, inhaling gently through his nose the way he does when he's thinking. “I don't think I want to be alone. Just having someone around is nice, I think. Really, it's probably better if you continue with your usual routine and I can just read a book and think or something. And I promise, if I need help, I'll ask you.”

So Nicky ends up writing for a while at his desk, words suddenly filled with more energy and joy than he can remember having in years. Richey stands outside his back door, chain smoking, staring into space. Nicky's eyes follow him when he comes back inside and pulls a book off the shelf, seemingly unaware of the quiet, watchful amazement of his host. When the flow of words stops, Nicky makes lunch for himself and Richey before flopping onto the sofa in front of the television.

“Care to join?” he asks Richey, who is curled in a chair on the other side of the room, reading. Richey nods and unfolds himself from the chair, dropping down on the sofa next to Nicky, close enough that their shoulders are touching. It's as if Richey can sense the increase in Nicky's lifelong impulse to touch and cuddle, a need for reassurance and emotional expression through physical contact. Despite what he'd said in interviews over the years, Nicky had always been the cuddly one, had always been the one to hug and kiss and lean on his friends, had always been the one ruffling hair or patting backs. Having his best friend back after so long, after the sadness and worry that touching him had caused before, brings out that urge to find physical contact related to happiness again. It's not long before Nicky has shifted, draping an arm around Richey's shoulders and quietly reveling to himself at the solidity of the presence beside him. Richey smells like cigarettes and soap; for the first time in his life, Nicky is thankful for the smell of Richey's cigarettes. They watch television together in comfortable silence.

“I think,” Richey says slowly, after a long time, “I think I'm willing to try things out. We can at least tell my family and Sean and James. I just--” He stops himself, moving to gnaw at a thumbnail.

“What?”

“What if they're too angry with me? It still worries me, is all. What if they decide they can't be friends with me anymore? I don't want to disturb their comfort, uproot their lives again, if that's not what they want. I know that James said--”

Nicky stops him with a shake of his head. “You'll be fine. They miss you so much, Richey. We all do. They'll be fucking thrilled to see you, I promise. And even though there's no chance of any of that happening, if it does, you know you still have me, and you still have your family. I know for a fact they're desperate to see you. Look, I know it's going to be strange, it's going to be overwhelming. But I'll be here with you, and I'm sure that everyone else will be willing to take it slow and make sure that you're okay.”

“I'm sure you're right, Nick... I just worry about slowing them down or burdening them. I don't want them to change things just for me. And I know I shouldn't, and it's something I've been working on with Helena, but I do still worry.”

Nicky shifts, taking Richey's hands in both of his, to ground himself, to ground Richey. “There's something you have to understand, Rich. Losing you was awful. Seeing you hurting and being unable to help was terrible. It was heartbreaking. Having you back, we would do anything to make sure you stick around, and that you're happy. It's not an inconvenience to make sure our friend is doing well. It's not an inconvenience to take measures to make sure you don't get ill again. Richey, you're never an inconvenience, because we love you, and we would rather adjust and adapt a little bit so that you're comfortable than lose you again.”

Richey nods solemnly. “Thank you for being so good to me. I missed you.” He gets up from the couch and retrieves the cordless phone from Nicky's kitchen, returning to Nicky's side and frowning down at the phone in his hand once he's comfortably back on the sofa. Nicky peers into his face.

“Tell me what you need, Rich.”

“Just sit here with me. I don't want to be alone if it goes badly. I want to be able to talk about it, whatever the outcome.” He stares at the phone again, then hands it to Nicky, who takes it questioningly. “I don't know James' number anymore.”

“Oh. Right.” Nicky punches in the number and hands the phone back to Richey, who puts it to his ear and listens to the ringing on the other end of the line. He hears James pick up.

“James Bradfield speaking.”

Richey gulps in a breath of air. “James, it's Richey.”

A disgusted scoff on the other end of the line. James' voice turns into a furious growl. “I don't know how you got this number, you fuckin' prick, but that is a disgusting prank. Fuck off.”

Nicky intervenes, leaning across Richey's body to speak into the receiver before James can hang up. “It's not a prank, James.”

A pause, a rustle as James puts the phone back to his ear. “Nick? What the fuck? S' that you?”

Nicky can't keep the elation out of his voice. Too good to be true, and yet here he is, alive and well. “Yeah, it is. Richey's back, he's sat right next to me. It's not a prank, James.”

Richey's voice is soft when he speaks down the line. “It's really not.” He looks up at Nicky, expression again nervous, grief-stricken, joyful. “I'm here. I really missed you.”

The noise on the other end of the line is deafening. Nicky grins. A smile spreads across Richey's face, like sunlight breaking through a cover of clouds.

 


End file.
